


By Fear of Falling

by poisontaster



Series: Sex Pollen [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Infidelity, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Negotiation, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-13
Updated: 2006-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean belongs to Sam.  But he doesn't always act like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Fear of Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sockkpuppett](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sockkpuppett).



"Dean."

Dean flinches, halts, letting gravity swing the door shut behind him. It's very still and in that stillness, the sudden race of his breath sounds very loud to him. Sam has pulled the overstuffed armchair so that it sits squarely in front of the door, if closer to the rear wall, and is sitting just as squarely in it, icy calm (that really isn't calm at all) radiating from him like curls of dry-ice smoke.

"Where were you?"

Dean jerks a thumb and looks behind him like the answer will be printed on the back of the door. His belly feels thick and heavy compared to the restless jitter of the rest of him. "I said I was going to the bar…"

" _Fuck,_ " Sam says once, viciously, and Dean goes quiet, hands falling to his sides. He can't meet Sam's eyes. "How stupid do you think I am, Dean?"

"I don't know what…"

"Shut up."

Dean's mouth closes so fast that his teeth clip his tongue and draw a little blood. Not much. Barely enough to sting, but he rolls that copper taste around on his tongue, across his teeth. _Sam is angry,_ he thinks and those words are imbued with a kind of panic they never had before. _Sam is angry with_ me.

"Come here."

Dean's breath sighs out of him and he goes to stand in front of Sam, between Sam's spread mile-long legs.

Sam leans a little forward in the chair, hands planted on the arms, and says dangerously, "You think I don't know what you've been doing?"

Dean can't even answer this time; he just shakes his head.

"You think I can't _smell_ it on you?"

The thought of Sam smelling him, reading his sins and fuck-ups and twisted-ass desires through his scent makes Dean's cock stir and heat in his jeans.

"How many, Dean?"

"I…" His throat is dry. So dry.

"How many men did you fuck, Dean?" Sam's voice breaks, but Dean doesn't mistake it for anything but the same rage that's charged the air like a lightning strike since he came in.

"I…one," he stammers. He feels his skin turning tight and hot; he can't see it, but he knows pink is creeping over his face, down his neck. It's shame and it isn't. "Just one."

"'Just' one," Sam repeats with heavy sarcasm. Quick as a cobra strike, he reaches up and grabs the waistband of Dean's jeans, half-throws, half-pushes Dean to his knees in front of him. His eyes are hard and dark, without softness, and Dean breathes in thickly, his cock starting to throb and burn. "How many should it have been?"

"None," Dean whispers. He wants to look away from Sam's eyes, but he feels frozen in place by Sam's stare. It seems…complicated. Tangled. "Sam—"

"Who do you belong to, Dean?"

Dean's head jerks slightly. "You."

"Then act like it," Sam says, shoving Dean away from him so that Dean sprawls backwards on his hands. "Strip."

Dean tries again. This has gone wrong somewhere. He flexes his wrist. "Sam—"

"Strip," Sam repeats, and Dean recognizes the tone that means he's out of leeway. Despite his anticipation of Sam's wrath, despite the shame that burns coal-hot in his stomach, that voice thrills through him, relieving him of responsibility, of decision. He's not even conscious of his fingers going to the hem of his shirt until cloth hides his sight as he tugs it over his head. He's very efficient; it's less than a minute before he's naked, crouching, waiting for Sam's next words.

Sam's fingers dig into Dean's hair, scrape harshly along his scalp until Sam has enough to grab and pull Dean's face up. Sam leans in again so they're only inches apart and Dean's mouth opens slightly, unconscious and reflexive. "Did he kiss you?"

"No." Dean shakes his head; the gesture tugs against Sam's grip on his short hair.

"Did he?" Sam asks again, his lips flat and set.

"No," Dean says again, stronger, more insistent. He was good. Well…sort of.

Sam makes a muffled, frustrated sound before jerking Dean forward a little for their lips and teeth to clash together. It's not really a kiss. More like dogs, biting each other for dominance. Except Sam doesn't really have to; Dean's already his. Dean closes his eyes and surrenders whatever it is Sam's looking for in him. Shit, everything.

After a second, it softens, changes, Sam's tongue pushing Dean's lips apart, digging greedily inside him. Sam's other hand steadies them both on Dean's shoulder and Dean shudders, moving his lips, angling his head a little for more. Sam grunts and then both his hands come up to cup Dean's face, forcing him wide and open until Dean's jaw aches from the pressure.

 _Please,_ Dean thinks, half-incoherent. _Please, please, please._

All at once, Sam pushes Dean away and he falls out again, dazed and violated. "This isn't over, Dean," Sam says then, the thin sun-lines around his eyes bunching tight. "You're not forgiven."

Dean only stares at him, throat aching, dick aching, and for different reasons.

The muscle in Sam's jaw ticks. "Go," he says and points next to the bed. "Kneel on the floor. Elbows and hands on the mattress. You know how I want you."

Dean nods. He does know. He doesn't even try to get up, just shuffles over on his knees. At the foot of the bed, he puts his forearms flat from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Spreads his legs wide and tips his hips and ass back and up. _For Sam._

His breath isn't fast any more, though his heart's still thumping a little quicker than normal, little stings of blood in all his extremities.

There's a creak as Sam gets up from the chair and Dean feels his belly and wrists tighten. Then Sam's hand is on the back of his neck, shoving his face down into the mattress. Dean doesn't fight. Fighting is something they do other times; when it's like this, when _they_ are like this, Dean is Sam's to do with as Sam wants.

Sam growls a little—in anger, in satisfaction, Dean can't tell—and kicks Dean's legs wider apart until he's balanced on the points of his knees, hip flexors protesting. Dean breathes through the slight ache, through the demands of his cock, through his nervousness and want as he hears the soft shush of Sam shedding his clothes behind him. He doesn't look up, even though he likes to see Sam naked. He stays as Sam put him, malleable, open.

He feels the heat when Sam kneels behind him.

Still, he can't help the soft, shocked noise that spills from his mouth when Sam grabs his thighs in bruising hard fingers and jerks him back some, the rug scraping rough across his knees, curled toes. Sam tilts his hips and Dean buries his face in the coverlet as those same unforgiving fingers curl around and into his ass, pulling him apart.

His whole body convulses a little when Sam leans in and inhales loudly, his face so close to Dean that he can _feel_ it without actually being touched. Oh God. Sam is _smelling_ him. Scenting. Dean bites his lip, fights the impulse to curl his hands into fists.

"I can smell him on you," Sam says. There's still that razor's edge of anger underneath the conversational tone of his voice. "Smell the _stink_ of someone else on you."

Dean's breath sucks in and holds.

"Doesn't matter." Sam's fingers tighten and Dean writhes a little, pain-pleasure-want. "Don't have to smell to know you've been well-fucked, red little pucker looking back at me, his come oozing out of you. Was it good, Dean? Did you like it?"

Dean's dizzy. He can't say anything, can't move. His whole self is pooled in the places where Sam's skin meets his and it doesn't leave room for much else. He feels his ass clench, ashamed that Sam would see him like this.

"I asked you _if you liked it_ ," Sam says again, tautly.

"Please…" Dean says and pants. It's a meaningless word. He doesn't know what he's asking for.

"Was he big?" Sam continues, ignoring it. "Did it hurt? Did it _ache_ , when he fucked you? You didn't even shower." Sam lets Dean go long enough to slap Dean's thigh with the flat of his palm, hard enough that Dean feels the blood flee and then return. "You filthy, fucking… You didn't even shower. You came to me dirty."

"Yes," Dean whispers.

"Did you want me to know? Know that someone had you, someone else has been in you? Jesus, Dean, do you _like_ this?" Suddenly, Sam is prying him apart again and then he's _there_ , his mouth, his tongue, lapping against Dean hot and wet.

Dean jerks and cries out, the unexpectedness of it, on top of all the other overloaded signals from his tense nerves, almost too much.

Sam knows him, knows him so well; long fingers encircle the base of his cock hard and furious, keep him from shooting.

"Sam," he says, mindlessly, hopelessly. "Sam…"

Sam mutters something against Dean's skin that he can't hear. Something about 'dirty' and 'clean' and then his tongue is there again, pressing against, pressing _in_ and the edge of the bed cuts into Dean's hips as he writhes helplessly, stuck, held, _fucked_. And Sam just keeps wiggling his tongue _deeper_ , further than Dean thought was possible, and at the same time, he's _sucking_ , biting and chewing and sucking and Dean can't think, can't do anything but feel it and take it, as much as Sam wants, as much as Sam forces him to accept. His fingers hold Dean firm, a cock ring of his flesh that contain all the boiling need building inside him.

"Anything," Dean says, through the blanket in his teeth. He has to bite. He _has_ to bite, or he's going to go insane. "God, Sam, _please_ , anything!"

They're just sounds. Meaningless syllables.

And then, when Sam slips one long, thick finger into him next to his still-writhing tongue, they cease to be even that much.

Sam. _Sam._

Sam in him, Jesus, _so deep_ in him, finger fucking his ass, his _prostate_ until Dean starts to shake apart, teeth digging blood from his lips even through the padding of the quilt.

It's almost a relief when Sam thrusts inside him with his cock.

One hard slide, all the way, until Sam's pubes grind and burn against Dean's ass. Sam's not small and Dean's not used to taking him like this, all at once. Sam is usually…more careful. Dean chokes and tries to jerk forward, but Sam's got him and he can't. He can't go anywhere. He can only open and shudder.

And it's good. God, it's so good.

Sam's not talking anymore either. His mouth, his teeth mark and scratch-gouge secret messages of anger, of possession all across Dean's skin. _Mine. Mine._ His knees dig into Dean's thighs and then he's urging Dean up, onto the bed, fucking him into it, never stopping. Dean curls his legs so that his heels grind into the back of Sam's thighs, as much a plea as he's capable of making just now.

The steady, angry slam of Sam's hips into him hurts; tomorrow there will be bruises and the sloppy spoor of Sam's fingers, his nails. Sam's cock forces him wide, all the way to the center of him, not careful, and over it all, that steady wolf growl, rising in volume. _Mine. Mine._

When Sam's fingers release the pressure on his cock, turn instead into rough, punishing strokes, Dean comes almost instantaneously, a bloom of wet stickiness on his belly his cock, Sam's hand.

Dean barely has time to make a sound.

All at once, Sam pulls out.

Dean is frozen, empty. Hollowed in the shape of Sam.

He has all of two seconds before Sam is turning him over onto his back, hauling Dean's numb and protesting legs up onto his shoulders and bending him down into a pretzel. Sam's weight on top of him feels like the only thing holding Dean down and he looks up into his brother's face. Sam's expressions are complicated, as complicated and sometimes frustrating as Sam's brain. But Dean can still see _his_ Sam in there, the one that put a band of plain leather around his wrist and said _beautiful_ , said _good_ , said _mine._

Oh, thank God. He's still Sam's.

Sam thrusts into him roughly and Dean arches. Sam hasn't been like this since the first time, since the pollen and at the same time he's scared to wonder what it means, the ecstasy of it, pure surrender is blissful, wonderful, a gift.

Sam's fingers push into Dean's mouth, one nail scraping over the gum. Dean suckles on instinct and the salt-bitter taste of himself floods his tongue making him sigh and then almost-whimper. "Yes, baby," Sam says then, his hips gentling, slowing. His mouth nuzzles messily against Dean's neck, below his ear. "Yes."

His hands slide ticklish up Dean's arms, stretched out over Dean's head, and twine their fingers together. Sam whispers something that sounds like, "You drive me so crazy," and then his voice is breaking on a moan and Dean feels his brother swell and pulse inside him, hot and slick.

Dean closes his eyes and breathes.

Later, when Sam curls around him, sweat and come slick, his fingers scruffing gentle through Dean's damp hair, Sam asks, "Was it good? Are you happy?"

Dean's eyes open and he thinks. He's sore. Not just his ass, but all of him. He'll feel Sam inside him for days, wear the marks Sam put on his skin for even longer. People will see. People will know. The pleasure of that fills him, thick and warm.

And yet.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is gruff and hoarse from disuse and the animal noises he made when Sam was fucking him. He hesitates, still unsure of how this all works with the fucking and the asking and the _feelings._

"What is it?" Sam prompts, because he _does_ know Dean just that well. "Tell me."

And that's an order. Dean's good with that. "Is…is it okay if we never do this again?" he asks.

There's silence behind him and Dean's stomach shrinks, thinking he's fucked it up but good now. Sam shifts, lifts up on his elbow and rolls Dean half onto his back so he can look into his face. Dean goes, blinking up into Sam's concerned expression. He tries not to tense up, aware Sam doesn't like it. _For Sam_ , he thinks again.

"Dean," Sam says. Stops. Licks his lips and wrinkles his eyebrows. "Dean, I thought that this is what you wanted. What you asked for."

And he did. He did ask, weird and twitchy beneath his skin.

_"Dean…what?"_

_"I just…I'm not used to it."_

_"What?"_

_"One person, all the time. Being with one person…"_

_"Fucking one person, you mean?"_

_"Yeah."_

He'd asked because he's never done this before. Not just…not just the surrender, the control, but the _monogamy_. It feels strange, sizing up hot strangers and realizing: there's nothing you can do about it. About that considering glance, that blown kiss, that light, caressing hand on your shoulder. Because you're going home with or to someone. It felt…restrictive.

"Yeah, I know," he says, trying not to squirm. Jeez, he feels about eight years old, or like the time CPS sent him to that counselor for a month, trying to get him to talk about his mom. "I mean… I _did_ want it. Sorta."

_"Dean…if that's what you want. We can do that. We can find somebody."_

_"Nah, it's stupid."_

_"Dean…just because you're mine… I still want you to be happy. If this is what'll make you happy, fucking someone else… I just want to be sure he's clean. Safe."_

_"But we're still us, right? I mean, this doesn't change anything, right?"_

_"Yeah, Dean; sure."_

And he'd even been excited about it…right up to the point where they were actually going through with it. Until the guy was touching him and it was _all wrong_.

God, so completely wrong. He'd wanted to stop, but Sam had told him to and he'd asked and he kept thinking it would get better, because sex usually _did_

"It wasn't the same," he says finally.

"What wasn’t?" Sam asks. His forefinger brushes across Dean's lips; he looks like he's contemplating going another round and even though he's twice fucked and sore like a motherfucker, Dean feels his cock twitch and his ass pucker.

"The sex. All of it. I just…" Dean allows Sam's finger to slide through his lips, suckles at the tip. Sam smiles faintly, pleased and Dean flushes. "It wasn't the same," he says again when Sam's finger pulls away, slicking Dean's saliva over his lips.

Sam nods. "Okay. We don't have to." His smile widens, showing the dimple.

And Sam's complicated, but Dean can tell. It makes Sam happy too, _just them._ Sam reaches over him to the nightstand, where Dean's bracelet sits in a puddle of faint gold light. Sam holds it up, a question in his eyes and raised eyebrows. "Still mine?" he asks.

Dean holds out his arm, sighs a little when Sam snaps the leather in place again. "Yours," he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to strippedpink for beta duties.


End file.
